


17 in...

by micehell



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: F/M, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-17
Updated: 2005-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:14:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone's 17 sometime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	17 in...

**Author's Note:**

> Written for MMOM in case the relationship description didn't give it away. ;) I only used the m/f and m/m tags because there're hints and/or references in each character's part to other relationships, but there's nothing besides that. And though none of it's overt enough to require a warning, there is a bit of implied teenage prostitution and underage sex, but there's definitely nothing onscreen there either. 
> 
> Except for Mandy and Jerry, all the years/ages were taken from the screenplay. Jerry's was approximated from the screenplay, and Mandy's I just made up.

It was August 2, 1965, and Jack had just had the best night of his life. He’d been in a new nightclub in London when Paul McCartney and Jane Asher walked in. Jack certainly knew how to pick the happening places to be, even if he was just 17.

Jack felt like he was floating on air. Jane had been gorgeous, and Paul had seemed to sparkle. The Beautiful People really were different. But what had him so happy was that those Beautiful People had noticed him.

He’d known he was different since he was a child, that he was special. Even magical. But to see others respond to that, to see the proof, was everything he’d hoped for. 

He was too excited to sleep, too excited. So he lay on his bed, stroking himself, dreaming of seeing Beautiful People. Dreaming of being one.

::::::::::

His parents are downstairs watching the telly, the volume so loud he could hear it clearly up in his room. Well, at least he doesn’t have to worry about being overheard.

He opens his well-worn copy of the June ’73 issue of Melody Maker. The one with The Photo. And when he looks at it, he’s not Arthur Stuart, an average seventeen-year-old from a Manchester suburb. When he looks at it, he’s different. He’s Brian Slade. And he’s watching Curt Wild.

He puts the magazine on the floor, his body bent over it, his hand in his shorts. His breath is harsh from the strained position, from his strained cock. His cheeks are flushed with passion and shame. But his mind sees only Curt. Curt watching him, watching Brian go down on his guitar. Curt watching him, watching Brian as he leans in for a kiss.

His kiss. Brian’s kiss. And he’s coming, Brian’s coming. Watching Curt.

::::::::::

The Palace played the not quite new movies. So even though it was 1948, the Palace was playing _The Paradine Case_ , which had come out the previous year.

It was still early in the day, and the movie wasn’t a favorite, so the theater was nearly empty. The five men watching were spread out, keeping their distance from each other, from the life that had them watching a movie in the afternoon rather than working.

Cecil kept his distance from them, too, though he had other reasons. One, he was 17, and he was supposed to be in school, so best not to call too much attention to himself. And two, Louis Jourdan was on the screen.

Louis Jourdan with his perfect face, and his perfect clothes. Perfect. Everything that Cecil wished he were. And everything that Cecil wished he could have. But there were laws about that, and Cecil couldn’t see himself in jail. Meaning he took what he could, where he could.

And so he sat in the nearly empty theater, and stroked himself under the cover of the darkness, under the cover of his coat, while he watched Louis’ perfect face on the screen.

Later, spent, he thought it was a shame that Jourdan wasn’t any more famous than he was. The man deserved to be a star. Maybe Cecil… no, that was just a pipe dream. He wasn’t a star-maker. 

But maybe he could be. He could just see himself discovering some perfect stranger, making them into a star, a star who would be forever grateful to him. He could see it. No, he wasn’t a star-maker. 

Maybe he could be. 

::::::::::

It was the summer of ’64 and Mandy was 17. She was at what her mother termed an awkward stage, but she knew it wouldn’t last long. She just knew it.

She was lying on her bed, wishing the fan were doing a better job of cooling her off, while she flipped through the pages of an old magazine, bored. The random flipping came to a stop with a picture of Audrey Hepburn from _Breakfast At Tiffany’s_. This is what she wanted to look like. So beautiful. 

Mandy felt her stomach flutter as she looked at the picture. She’d never admit it to anyone, but she sometimes found girls as attractive as boys. Especially when they looked like this. She stroked a finger along the photo, tracing out the graceful lines of the neck, of the cigarette holder. Her other hand slid into her panties, fingering the sweat-damp creases there.

The flutter increased as she stroked her clit. She knew she wouldn’t always look like she did now. Soon she’d look just like this. And she’d smoke her cigarettes in a long holder, and wear the most stylish of clothes.

Her fingers pushed harder, stroked faster. Or maybe she’d be like Dorothy Parker, so witty and cutting, and people would hang on her every word. 

She felt the spasm and pulse that was pleasure, and almost not. Or maybe she’d be both of them, and everyone would love her. 

::::::::::

It was still fairly cool for June, so he had the windows to his bedroom shut. He stared out the window, thinking. Thinking about the fact that it was June, and Jerry was out of school now, which meant that he’d have to do his National Service. He didn’t want to go, but at least it was only for eighteen months, and he’d be out by the beginning of ’56. Then he could get on with his life. But the idea of having to live with a bunch of men, without any women around, was really depressing him.

Best to keep his mind off of it. Later today he could go down to the local and chat up that new barmaid there.

Thinking about the woman, and her enormous assets, made Jerry hard. Of course, at 17, pretty much everything made him hard. Well, wasn’t like he didn’t know how to take care of it. And it’s not as if he wouldn’t be good to go later on for his barmaid.

He made sure the door to his room was shut before he pushed his pants down, exposing himself. He smiled at the sight, God’s gift to women everywhere. He gave himself a good long stroke, the friction making him harder.

He thought again of his barmaid, imagined her smile as he came into the pub. He’d wink at her, and ask her for one of her best. She’d get him a pint, but she’d wink back, tell him it wasn’t her best, but it could do for now.

He started pumping faster, letting the dream play out in his mind. He’d corner her in the storeroom, where she’d be scared of getting caught, but hot for him anyway. He’d get her up against the cases of beer, tit in one hand, hip in the other, and he’d give her _his_ best. And she’d take it.

He came hard, the dream lost in a haze of pleasure. Sex was the best thing ever, and he hoped he didn’t have to go too long without when he was in the Service. Best enjoy himself while he could, just in case. Maybe he’d head down to the pub now instead of later. 

And maybe his barmaid had a couple of friends.

::::::::::

It was March of 1966, and The Who’s ‘A Legal Matter’ was blasting on his radio. He smirked, knowing that wasn’t going to be a problem for him. It would have to be a special woman who could make him give up all the ‘dirty little things’ he did. And he was only 17, not like he was really old enough to be married. 

When he was a famous rock-star, he wouldn’t need to be married, anyway. He’d have women throwing themselves at him. And men, too. A different one for every night. Or a different two or three even.

He sighed. That day couldn’t come fast enough for him, though it was certainly coming slow enough now. The best gig he’d managed to get so far was at a little club down the street, and he hadn’t even got paid for it. The audience had barely paid him any attention, either. Though the club manager certainly had. 

He smirked again, thinking of the manager. That had been fun. He didn’t think he’d ever come that hard before. He lay back on his bed, thinking about all the things the man had done to his cock. Such a flexible tongue.

He rubbed himself through the fabric of his pants, liking the feel of the cloth against his stirring cock. The tight pants started to constrain, though, so he unzipped them, letting his cock jut free. A couple of firm strokes brought him to full hardness.

One day he’d be famous, and he’d never have to do this for himself again. He’d stand on a stage, lights setting his skin aglow, and the audience would crowd up close, hands reaching for him, wanting him.

His pace increased, imagining the screaming mob, all calling for him. They’d all want to touch him, not be allowed to touch him. But their want would. Their want would stroke along his skin, along his mind. Their cries would echo in his ears as their eyes clung to him. He would be their fantasy, something they could never possess, but always follow.

His moans were the roar of the audience; his hand was the touch of their need. He came, his climax an ovation. Eventually he descended, no longer a god, but only Thomas Slade instead.

But he could still hear their screams in his head.

::::::::::

Outside, the place was seedy, looking like it was about to fall apart at any minute.

Inside, it was his. For now, anyway. And he was alone, free to do as he pleased.

Outside, he was a seventeen-year-old runaway, trying to make a living as best he could. The only way he knew.

Inside, no one’s touching him but him. His hand on his cock, just right. No one’s yelling, or… anything else. Only his voice, moaning with pleasure.

Outside, it was Detroit in 1963, and he lived in a neighborhood where his skin color told as much against him as his neighbors’ did when they went beyond their ‘place’. 

Inside, his skin was flushed with pleasure as he rolled his balls around in their sac. Just like he liked it.

Outside, he was poor white trash. He was a faggot. He was a loser.

Inside, he’s Curt, only Curt, and no one else. And it’s his finger up his ass, no pressure. And it feels good, all good, and he’s spiraling out, and he’s flying.

Alone. So good.

/story


End file.
